


spite alone holds me aloft

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Cliffhangers, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, F/F, Multiple Orgasms, Office Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadomasochistic tendencies, Season/Series 03, Shameless Smut, Smut, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Paranoia and the long-winded unraveling of Joan Ferguson call forward this tryst, this debrief heralded as another regrettable midnight decision.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	spite alone holds me aloft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLexFiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to my friend, Lexie; thanks for inspiring me to write, mate. You’ve such a knack for language and prose! 
> 
> This just feels like gratuitous smut haha.

> "All who proclaim their love betray me."
> 
> "All who proclaim their love, let them hate me, hate me so long as they fear me."
> 
> _Spite Alone Holds Me Aloft_ – lingua ignota

Paranoia and the long-winded unraveling of Joan Ferguson call forward this tryst, this debrief heralded as another regrettable midnight decision. However, she remains convinced that the insubordination of her colleague drives her. The perfect, working relationship between Governor and Deputy has disintegrated, clouded by miscommunication and slander. Miss Bennett ventures down the path of vindictive self-righteousness, supposedly enlightened by the cautionary tales spun by her peers.

Tonight, she doesn’t listen to any of them. She falls into the habit of pining for glory, for an elusive, enigmatic woman who represents the pinnacle of her desire, of her ambition. Her hungry stare flits to the crowns, golden and ethereal even in the grimy, fluorescent glow. 

Not quite worthy of the throne, the Governor allows for Vera to sit on the edge of her magnificent desk. Her fingers drum against the ledge, nails sinking into polished mahogany; she wants to leave a mark, to brand this coveted possession in bratty retaliation. Vera finds herself perched here by circumstance, her eyes alight with glowering defiance. Though irksome, Joan finds this surge of confidence to be strangely alluring.

“Perhaps I should blindfold you,” Ferguson muses in a taunting lilt with a proud cant of her head.

Her office reads like an interrogation scene, but the torture promises to yield such a delicious reward. Always a willing participant, a pleated tie now keeps Vera’s wrists bound together; the knot can easily be undone should any true difficulties arise. In annoyance, Vera tests her mettle, though she knows that she must exert the patience of a saint. Her heels dig into the cabinet, procuring a metallic clang.

The ritual commences. Leather gloves crease and groan to conduct a bittersweet symphony. From irritation, her nostrils flare, her right cheek twitches at the violation of her sacred space. She unfastens her blazer, neatly draping it over the coat-rack. Unbuttons her cuffs, rolling up the sleeves to make a spectacle out of her transformation. Truth be told, she would **loathe** for Vera to muddy her pressed, prim uniform. The remainder of her ensemble, however, stays intact.

Although her shoulders hunch and her jaw stiffens from tension, Vera doesn’t shrink into herself. She doesn’t fade, doesn’t recede. The collar to her blouse remains unfastened, exposed to reveal her scrawny throat. Her skirt hitches ever higher, past her thighs and bunches up around her bony waist to reveal her unholy offering.

In the pocket of the Devil’s trousers, there lies a mischievous secret, a hard truth. Miss Ferguson takes stoic charge. Encompassed by an invisible cloud, the scent of the Governor’s perfume shrouds Vera, swallows her whole. It’s like the Holy Ghost is moving right through her.

From her ivory palace, Joan looks down upon her pathetic, little underling. On the metaphorical hot seat, her superior might as well put her in the electric chair for this stifling third degree; from the scrutiny of that judgmental stare, Vera squirms. _Good._ A little God complex harms no one.

A predator closes in on her prey, following the natural course of order and structure. The distance becomes a concept forgotten, now distracted by closeness and the heat of a body so close to hers.

Slipping beneath the cup of Vera’s nude bra, gloved thumb and forefinger squeeze a rosy bud, coaxing her nipple to harden. Satin panties cling to her soaked sex. _My_ , her deputy is full of surprises. She purses her lips which are swathed in a nude gloss, bemusement goading further mockery. Leather drifts down to tease her cunt and that’s not all. Silk clings to the contours of her sex to emphasis soaked slit. Still loyal, Vera crooks her legs, she bends her knees, and allows for a voyeur to savor the moment.

Tracing lazy circles across the fabric, Joan draws out the torture with no intent to satiate. She taunts and teases to see what will tip this destructive mouse over the edge. The Governor watches to see what makes her tick, tick, _tick_.

With a flourish of her wrist, Joan procures a modestly sized vibrator to work over the satin that outlines her feminine wiles. Exercising cruelty while observing with fascination, she nudges the bullet against her clit, meandering in languid strokes. The round curve of the tip slides over her clothed cunt, the fabric damp from her arousal. Mercilessly, Joan teases her slick, swollen sex, knowing which direction to caress. Obscenity ignites her glittering granite gaze: a prelude for all the filthy things to come. She possesses the cold fascination of a killer, parting her lips as she witnesses death on the rise.

Every jolt, every tremor, is duly noted by her torturer. Vera parts her lips to let out a ragged, strangled breath. The bridge of her navy-blue knickers are pushed aside to allow for the toy to tease and trail her wetness along. The toy nudges maddeningly close to her twitching clit before falling short. Exposed, Vera can’t hide herself beneath the sheets that obscure her childhood bed. Her cheeks turn cherry red.

Shame withers away. She takes every overwhelming caress quite well. From the overwhelming sensations, Vera writhes with her breathing awfully shallow. She can smell her own wetness, her sex, her sweat.

“I could leave you this way: annihilated, begging for my touch, singing my name...” Joan croons, a salacious smirk curling onto her cruel, yet inviting mouth.

As her climax approaches, her trembling thighs tense. Taut muscles strain, her body reacts. A warbled sonnet rushes past her lips. Waves crash over her, course through her body. She unravels and comes apart at the seams. With no time to come down from her high, the toy continues to hum. A slow burn takes hold. Her skin’s aflame with that awful prison glow. Once the fire starts, the heat is guaranteed to stay.

Every time the devious toy wanders away, Vera experiences an overwhelming loss. Her heart threatens to leap out of her chest. The bullet hums against her deliciously swollen lips, gently brushing over damp curls. From the friction, her cunt pulsates. A teasing touch wanders to the left, then towards the right of her clit. Subtly, Joan manipulates the vibrator with a press of her thumb, triggering the device on and off, as if symbolizing their ruinous affair.

“Guv’na,” Vera squawks, flounders about, her hair disheveled as her braided bun loosens.

“You need to trust me.”

So, she does. She always fucking does.

Unable to hold still, she slides forward across the desk. A moment’s reprieve allows her to pause for air. Sucking in a drag of breath through her gritted teeth, Vera wiggles, loosens the restraints keeping her wrist together. It feels like an agonizing test and yet, she maintains pointed eye contact.

In control of Vera’s pleasure, needy, pitched whines create a bittersweet symphony. The feverish dance against her swollen clit corrupts all thoughts on morality. With a hand cradling the back of her deputy’s head, she lures her in towards her curvaceous waist. Promises of intimacy are whispered into the shell of her ear. It’s a ploy to keep the little bird tethered to her.

“Are you fantasizing about more punitive measures? Shall I spank you into submission?”

There’s a lascivious chuckle, clearly mocking Vera’s licentious daydreams. The threat accompanying fantasy is enough to spurn a fresh flood of wetness. With gritted teeth and lurched hips, she takes it. Basks in the humiliation. It’s the anticipation, reminiscent of the erotic yet romantic novels she covets, that gets Vera off. She craves more. Yearns for skin-to-skin contact. The hypothetical scenario arouses her further. From the strain, she feels Ferguson’s breath kiss her lips and steal whatever’s left of her damned soul.

Perhaps an investment in a rabbit would be beneficial for the next tryst. It conjures up the fantastic image of burying a dildo to the hilt with the rabbit furiously working her clit. Oh, how Vera wishes the Governor would take her with her cock.

From high to low to furiously slow, an uneven rhythm causes her to rattle and shake. Clench her jaw, the tension in her neck paramount. Vera is simply incapable of sitting as still as a statue, she deviates from instruction and sworn devotion. Joan tuts with the disappointment of a schoolteacher. The sensation shoots straight to her molten core.

How enthralling it is to watch Vera twist and writhe. The crook of Joan’s knuckle caresses a ruddy cheek made damp from sweat. Rather roughly, she brushes off the fluid on Vera's neck. Makes a point to scrape her skin to add insult to injury. She’s thankful for the barrier maintained by her gloves, but oh, that pain is _art_.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk. Dismantle me _completely_ so you can get off on it,” Vera whines all whilst this torture drives her mounting sexual frustration.

Well, now.

This transformation paves the rest of the gilded way.

A short, clipped exhale sounds off.

“You’re _insatiable_ ,” Joan rasps, a sound trapped between a growl and a groan, her shoulder melded to her deputy's in this wretched union.

Shivering, Vera braces herself for the secondary rush. The screwed-up tension in her jaw never leaves her. She craves stimulation beyond the bullet's systematic, albeit rapid whirring before daring to delve inside with shallow, yet vigorous thrusts.

In a moment of clarity, Vera doesn’t look away. The strain of her muscles pushes her through the pain. Releasing all inhibitions, she lets go. She pulsates around the toy running slick from her wetness, coming, cumming, for the kingdom

“Such a good girl,” Joan purrs. “You’ve one more in you, mm?”

Shakily, Vera nods. The mechanical hum accompanies her ragged breathing. Her stomach churns, her insides melting, and she wonders if she even has the bloody courage to ride out the last waves of pleasure.

Biting her lip, Vera tastes blood and takes deep breaths through her nose. Swallows the contamination, as if she’s the plague. The persistent vibrations seldom distract from her dripping arousal. All the while, the steady thrum of her pulse accelerates.

“Don’t deny me,” Vera issues her demand, finding her voice, her gaze bold and unwavering.

Finally, she wiggles out of her restraints. Quivering, sweet Vera lashes out, gripping and wrinkling the fabric of Joan’s blouse while she tugs at the collar. At the offense, the Governor curls her lip. However, she must commend her Deputy’s moxie. 

“Ah, ah. Have you earned that privilege, DepuTy?” 

A quirk of the brow suggests not.

A quick-witted retort becomes easily neglected, preoccupied by the perilous, impending fall. Even with the electric friction, she craves a more personal touch. The device alternates between on and off, crafting a ruinous pattern. How maddeningly frustrating! 

“Go on,” Joan goads with a jutted jaw and her palm settling against her disciple’s gulping throat. “Cum for me like the filthy, little Governor’s whore you are.”

Trapped in a daze, her mouth falls open in a silent cry. She performs that body electric. That last, sweet yet tantalizing release ripples through her. A sea runs through her veins. Tired and sore, her body stills. Though spent, the afterglow illuminates her honeyed skin. In her resilience, she wants more. Unable to stand, her legs continue to tremble; she might as well melt into an errant puddle. A fuck isn’t enough to keep her in line.

“Let me have you,” Vera demands, her voice a wavering whisper, maintaining direct eye contact. “Let me make you feel this way.”

She fucks her way through the disappointment, the anguish, the hate that clouds all hurt.

Witnessing those muddied expressions is exactly how you snare a sadist.

At war with herself, still unfulfilled, how can the Governor resist? At last, Joan relents. Doe’s eyes and swollen lips tempt even the Devil. The recollection of bloodshed, however, detours her from consuming the tainted communion. Conformity defiled, a modern-day Judas promises her such ethereal, wicked delights and fulfilled gratification.

So, Vera reaches the inconclusive end, tugging down the zipper to Ferguson’s trousers, the teeth threatening to snag.

Spite keeps Joan aloft yet tethered to her deputy with her palms falling flat upon her desk, her shoulders quaking from her guaranteed demise. Her under-bite peeks out, as if she grimaces from the pain of great feeling. It’s always Vera that unravels her, unnerves her, and knocks the Queen from the chessboard.


End file.
